


A Delicate Balance

by zelda_zee



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-02
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their history hung in the air between them, unsaid. It was not something which could be spoken of – not under any circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Delicate Balance

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Thank you to [](http://mollivanders.livejournal.com/profile)[**mollivanders**](http://mollivanders.livejournal.com/) and [](http://siluria.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://siluria.livejournal.com/)**siluria** for betaing. Any mistakes in the fic are the result of me not being able to leave their excellent work alone and are entirely my own.

“The new valet has arrived, m’lord,” Carson said, and Robert’s stomach fluttered nervously before he quelled it with an act of will. Carson added something else in a doubtful and foreboding tone, but Robert barely heard a word of it.

He had been expecting Bates’ arrival, of course. He just hadn’t been certain how he would react when the man actually arrived. Apparently, he was to suffer a fit of nerves, which would not do at all.

He and Cora finished their stroll and Robert retired to the library. The quiet of the room calmed him, the pungent smoke of his cigar settling him further. It was pointless to fret, he told himself. If he had never anticipated that Bates and all his attendant reminders of the war would become a part of life at Downton, he at least had to believe that no harm could come of it. Where Bates was concerned, Robert had no doubts. Irregardless of the passing of years, Robert trusted that he could rely on Bates’ loyalty and discretion.

Robert recalled the last time he had seen Bates, lying pale and still on a hospital bed on the other side of the world. So many years ago. So many things had changed.

There had been a brief exchange of letters after the war, and then nothing for years. Not until Bates wrote a little more than a month ago, in search of employment. Robert had thought at the time that it must have been a difficult letter for Bates to write. He had always hated having to ask for help.

That afternoon Robert made his way down to the servant’s dining room, knowing he would find Bates at luncheon, surrounded by the rest of the staff. He tried to ignore how his heart was beating too quickly, his hands clammy with perspiration. It would be better to meet again this way, he was sure of it. No awkward greetings in the too-quiet privacy of his dressing chamber; rather a hearty reunion of old comrades, _my dear fellow_ , with an audience to witness that all was above board and as it should be. Neither of them could allow there to be anything strained in their interaction, no hesitancy or hint of discomfort, not with so many eyes upon them.

Robert’s customary aplomb carried him through the short greeting, and it was a simple enough matter to make his excuses and affect a rapid exit, with all the servants arrested in the course of their meal and unable to continue as long as he was present.

Afterward, Robert could not help but compare the Bates he had known during the war with the man downstairs. There was something in his face, Robert thought, which had not been there before. It was not simply the intervening years taking their toll, as they had on both of them. There was some great sadness there, something that had cut quite deeply. He supposed that it was unlikely he would ever learn its cause.

~*~

Their history hung in the air between them, unsaid, as Bates laid out His Lordship’s morning suit and held His Lordship’s starched white shirt up for him to slip his arms into and dusted His Lordship’s jacket. It was not something which could be spoken of – not under any circumstances.

Sometimes, as Bates was fastening his cufflinks, Robert would watch the top of his dark, neatly combed head, and remember how the ruddy African dust had turned his hair almost red. He would see Bates’ face, downturned now as he concentrated on his task, caked with sweat and dirt and burned near as brown as the natives.

“Will that be all, m’lord?” Bates would ask, straightening Robert’s tie and taking a step back. He met Robert’s eyes squarely and there was nothing there at all, no hint of memory or shame or regret. There was only Robert’s valet, quiet and dignified, the distance in his manner no less than what was proper for a manservant.

~*~

There had not been so much as a flicker of recrimination in Bates’ eyes as Robert dismissed him. Only quiet acceptance, as if he’d known all along that this would be the outcome. His war wound, the way the staff had taken against him – convenient excuses to be rid of a reminder that was proving more painful than Robert had anticipated. He had thought to make good on an old debt, one that had been outstanding for a long time. But he had found putting things right to be so uncomfortable that he grasped at the excuse, when Carson put it before him. Every day, Robert’s great sin and shame, presented to him in the person of his valet. He had found it difficult, at times, to bear.

“It wasn’t right,” Robert had said to Carson, and the butler accepted, with those three words, that Mr. Bates would now be a permanent member of the staff. The matter was decided, and any of those who had done their best to see Bates gone would have to learn to live with it.

Bates would work out, Robert told himself. He had to work out. Robert needed him to.

It was undeniable that Bates could not perform all the customary duties of a valet, but Robert found, as Bates stepped out of the automobile and silently took his valise back from Robert's hand, meeting his eyes for only the briefest instant, that he did not care in the least.

“Eccentric, even for you,” Cora had said. Well, so be it. One of the privileges of an elevated station was that a certain degree of eccentricity was accepted, even expected. Among the range of eccentricities exhibited by England’s great families, having a half-lame valet barely was worthy of mention.

~*~

There had been a time when they were sunk deep into the war with no end in sight; a time when Robert could almost convince himself that there was nothing left on the earth save viciousness and inhumanity. In that brutish time and place, it had seemed almost reasonable to grab a bit of ease and relief from the only person Robert knew, without any doubt, he could trust with anything – even his life.

That was all it had been, nothing more than what many men did in the far straits of wartime. It was not unknown by any means, only unacknowledged.

They had been younger then, spry and slim and whole, the both of them. Bates had been quicker with a smile, more inclined to easy conversation. He was still reserved, still deferential, just looser, as if the servant’s mien that he presented so seamlessly at Downton hadn’t yet leached its way down to his bones. But Bates never would have crossed that line into impropriety. Not if Robert hadn’t crossed it first.

Of course, it had not been planned. One does not plan such a thing, it simply happens.

The distinction between master and servant, so rigid back in England, was practically meaningless after weeks out in the bush. Robert thought it would take a man much more devoted to maintaining that divide than he to uphold it when he and Bates were practically living in each other’s pockets.

At night, after they had eaten, they would sit and smoke a pipe and talk of the war or of home. Speaking of Downton, describing it in detail so that Bates could see it as clearly in his mind as Robert did assuaged the loneliness and the ever-increasing sense of futility that plagued him more and more often.

Bates was quiet and guarded, but when he did have something to say Robert soon learned that he was well worth listening to. As the war wore on, Bates’ company became familiar and comfortable and Robert found he could relax around Bates more easily even than he had with men who were his equal in station.

Robert would have liked to have been able to place the blame on the war or on drunkenness or on some form of insanity, when he was emboldened to reach for Bates the first time. But the truth was that it had happened after an utterly unremarkable day, devoid of bloodshed, and that he hadn’t had a drop to drink in weeks. Perhaps he _was_ insane; he was certain that society would judge him so, if not worse. Would they then judge Bates so as well, when he turned to Robert’s hesitant caresses, welcoming, and pulled him close?

 _They could not understand,_ Robert thought, as Bates shuddered and gasped and spilled into his hand. _No one else could possibly understand_.

They shared no words of tenderness, no expressions of affection. There was nothing of love in what he and Bates did, fumbling in the dark, silent but for the sound of their breathing, the occasional ungovernable gasp bit back as soon as it was uttered. But it was a relief and a necessity, to feel what it was to be alive, and to be able to make someone else feel it as well.

Bates never mentioned what they did under cover of darkness in the light of day. Whether alone or in company, he was never anything but the perfect batman, unfailingly proper and quietly competent. Robert was grateful, yet perversely at times he wished for some acknowledgment that what they shared was real, that the memory of it entered Bates’ mind in the intervals between their encounters. It was a foolhardy, childish urge to which Robert would never allow himself to succumb, but at times he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from bursting forth with some imbecilic endearment or clench his fist to keep from reaching out to touch Bates’ arm.

Bates would not welcome such familiarity, Robert told himself. In truth, he was not sure of the extent to which Bates truly welcomed any familiarity that Robert had taken. Bates never denied him; indeed he seemed just as eager as Robert to seize what pleasure he could when they had the chance. But Robert could not forget that it was he who had turned to Bates, he who had pushed his desires onto a subordinate. Bates had not stopped him, but would he? The question tormented Robert, and yet he could not refrain, in their rare moments of privacy, from reaching for Bates again.

There was a bloody, awful day at Ladysmith that had almost held their deaths a hundred times over – a day on which Robert lost count of the bodies he saw, had no idea how many of them were laid out on the sun-baked ground because of him, lifeless and starting to bloat in the heat. The air was thick with flies and the sweet, sickening stench of putrefaction.

Robert broke his own rule and sought Bates out before the coppery sun had even sunk below the horizon, devising a false pretense to bring him to a room that he knew to be abandoned.

Bates stood looking at the deserted storeroom and turned to Robert in confusion. “Sir? What do you need me to do?”

Robert could not answer him, but there was no need. Bates had seen by the expression on his face, the wildness of his eyes. Robert sank into his arms with a feeling of immense gratitude and the bitter knowledge that, at moments like these, the only thing preserving the tenuous hold he had on sanity was this man, his servant.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against Bates’ shoulder. Robert’s breath hitched and he bit back a sob, cursing himself for his weakness. “I’m sorry.” There was an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat that made it hard to swallow. He buried his face in Bates’ neck and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to feel only the strength and solidity of the body pressed against him, but his head still swam with the screams of men and horses, the boom of the artillery, the buzzing of the flies. He tore desperately at Bates’ belt, shoving him back against the rough wall. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t even tug the belt free of the buckle.

“Don’t say that.” One of Bates’ hands curled around the back of Robert’s neck, holding him close. “We are alive, that’s what matters. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

His beard scraped Robert’s cheek as their faces rubbed together. Robert opened his mouth against Bates’ neck and tasted salt and dirt and smoke, moaned as he felt the beat of Bates’ pulse beneath his tongue. ”I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips moving soundlessly.

“Hush,” Bates said. The hand at the nape of Robert’s neck tightened, then released. “Let me look after you.”

Robert drew a gasping breath. “Please,” he whispered, flushed and shamefaced, bereft of pride. “Please, if you – if you don’t mind.”

Bates said nothing, making short work of loosening Robert’s garments enough to slip a hand inside. Robert shivered and made a sharp, undignified sound, wrapped an arm tightly around Bates’ shoulders and leaned into him, breathing harshly.

Bates’ hand came to the back of Robert’s neck again, warm and heavy and Robert sighed in relief at how the weight of it steadied him.

“There now,” Bates said, his lips just brushing Robert’s ear. “You’ll see, sir. Everything will be all right.”

And Robert knew it to be a lie, yet when Bates said it he found it easy to believe.

~*~

Mrs. Pattmore returned from London with her eyesight restored and the housemaid Anna returned with news that restored Bates’ honor. Not that Robert had doubted for a moment there was more to the story. Bates, a thief? Never in a million years. It was so damnably typical of the man to have been covering for someone from a sense of duty. Now _that_ was Bates, to a tee.

“You should have written me,” Robert said the next morning as Bates was helping him dress. “I could have provided assistance.”

Bates’ stiffened, stilling for just a moment, barely noticeable. “I could not, m’lord.” His voice was carefully neutral but Robert caught a glimpse of some strong emotion in his eyes, defiance perhaps, or anger.

“I only meant –” Robert hesitated, softening his tone. “If you had chosen to write to me, I would have been glad to do what I could. I owe you that much, at least, my dear chap.”

Bates met his eyes for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“I was raised to look after my own affairs. I’m sure you understand.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Robert murmured, adjusting his cuffs. He stepped away, moving to his snuff box case and leaving Bates waiting, lint brush in hand.

“‘A spot of bother’, you called it once,” Robert said. “Don’t you think that was something of an understatement?” He toyed with the latch of the case, then lifted the lid, gazing at the array of boxes without truly seeing them.

“Perhaps,” Bates admitted. “But you need not trouble yourself with my personal affairs, m’lord.”

“But,” Robert began, closing the lid. He didn’t know how to ask, not without destroying the fragile structure of this new relationship where they were nothing more to each other than what they ought to be. “What I mean to ask, Bates,” Robert forced himself to turn around. “Your difficulties – the drinking – was it because of –” He took a breath and finished all in a rush. “Of what happened during the war?”

_Was it because of what we did? Because of what we were to each other?_

The question hung there unspoken. Robert would not dare to voice it.

The silence lasted longer than it should, the only sound the ticking of the clock.

“My troubles were no one’s fault but my own,” Bates said carefully. “The war was not to blame.”

Robert could not tell if it was the truth, but it was the only reply that Bates could give. They had only words now, and words had not been the way they told their truths to each other. Robert would never know with certainty but he would choose to believe Bates. It was the least he could do for the man.

“Shall I brush your jacket, m’lord?” Bates asked, holding up the brush.

“Yes, of course.” Robert moved to stand in front of him, watching in the mirror as he bent to carry out his work.

~*~

The day Bates had been wounded was the last on which Robert saw action in the war. Soon after they transferred him to Pretoria and sat him behind a desk. He spent the next four months coordinating supply shipments. If only Robert's reassignment had come a few days earlier, Bates would have been miles away from the shell that exploded in front of him and shattered his leg.

Robert secured a private room for him at the hospital; unheard of for a servant, but he didn’t care. Bates lay against the white sheets, his skin gray beneath the tan, and shook and sweated and moaned in his sleep. Robert sat vigil beside him, afraid that if he left the doctors would take Bates’ leg. It was a near thing, and if Robert hadn’t made the harried Army doctor well aware of his rank and his station, if he hadn’t shouted the man down when he insisted it would be kinder to Bates in the long run to just amputate, then Bates would not be ‘managing’ to get along at Downton now.

That was one thing he did right, Robert told himself, standing at the window and watching Bates’ steady but uneven gait as he walked down the drive, Anna at his side, her arm tucked into his. As he watched, the girl looked up at Bates, her face radiant. _She loves him_ , Robert realized with a start. Bates said something to her, smiling gently and Anna leaned into him.

“What are you looking at, dear?” Cora asked, coming to stand beside him. “Oh. Does your Mr. Bates have an admirer? Love below stairs, how charming.”

“He is not _my_ Mr. Bates,” Robert said testily, but without any real venom.

“Isn’t he?” Cora arched a brow. “Have you decided to relinquish him then? How magnanimous.” She stared out the window, her eyes following the couple’s slow progress towards the gates. She frowned suddenly. “I seem to recall there was talk of a wife somewhere.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh dear.” She turned away from the window. “Well, let us pray they are discreet, at least. Come, dear. Carson informed me that your mother has paid us an unexpected visit and will be staying for luncheon, and Cousin Isobel is due at any moment. I cannot possibly manage an entire meal with the two of them, without you or the girls there to mediate. You simply must join us.”

Bates and Anna passed through the gate and turned onto the lane, heading towards the village. Robert watched until they disappeared from view and then he turned his back to the window, smiling at his wife. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingers. “There is nothing in this world that I should like better,” he said, and followed her from the room.

~*~

After announcing the dreadful news Robert scanned the crowd of no longer festive partygoers, feeling the cold claws of dread digging into him. _War_. Again, after all this time. He had read the reports in the paper; the coming war had been the only topic of conversation amongst the gentlemen of his acquaintance for months, and yet now that it was here he found that he could not comprehend the reality of it.

His hands were shaking and they hadn’t done that in years.

When his gaze fell on Bates he knew for whom he had been searching. Robert made his way quickly across the lawn, feeling dazed, the clear brightness of the day dimmed, the voices of his guests muted and indistinct.

 _We are at war. We are at war._ The thought ran through his head again and again, devoid of meaning.

Bates was standing alone, the maid Anna having been called back to her duties. There was a faraway look in his eyes and it was not until Robert was right before him that he seemed to snap back to awareness, making a visible effort to stand up straighter.

“It's a bloody awful business, Bates,” Robert muttered.

“It is indeed most regrettable news,” Bates agreed.

“War with Germany! All of Europe will be dragged into this before it’s over.”

“Surely not.” Bates said, but he sounded unconvinced. “Surely it will all be over before Christmas.”

Robert smiled bitterly. “They say that at the start of every war. And it never comes to pass.” He sighed. “I didn’t think we’d live to see the day we'd be at war again.”

They looked out over the remnants of the garden party, guests gathered in small clumps, talking in urgent, hushed tones. Servants were starting to discreetly clear the tables. William was the only one still circulating, a tray of champagne glasses held high. Sybil was nowhere to be seen, nor was Mary. Edith was playing hostess, bidding the departing guests goodbye. Robert would have to remember to thank her later.

“It will change everything,” Robert murmured.

“Not everything, m’lord,” Bates said. “It will not change those things which matter most.”

Robert lifted his gaze to the house. Downton had seen the passing of centuries, of war after war declared and fought and won or lost, and it yet endured. He had to believe that this war would be no different than all those that had preceded it. He had to believe that Downton and all it stood for would survive.

“I hope you are right,” he said to Bates. He wanted to turn to the side to look Bates in the eye, but he dared not.

They stood in silence for a moment. “The party is winding down,” Bates observed. Edith was escorting the last of the guests across the lawn and the staff was hurrying to finish up.

“Finally,” breathed Robert with a sense of profound relief.

“I should do what I can to help,” Bates said, gesturing toward the tents.

A wind had whipped up, toppling some of the flower arrangements. There were dark clouds in the distance, scudding across the sky, and as Robert watched there was a flash, followed by a faraway boom. He looked upward to see blue skies lingering yet above, the golden rays of sunlight slanting across the lawn, glinting on silver and crystal.

“Never mind that. We have a while yet before the storm arrives,” Robert said. “Walk with me back to the house.”

He slowed his steps to match Bates’, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. Bates’ quiet presence was a comfort beside him, much as it had been all those years ago. At least that had not changed, Robert thought. He suspected that it would not, that should they live to an old age here at Downton, Bates would always have that effect on him. It was not unpleasant to contemplate.

Robert stopped, for a moment hesitating to put his thoughts into words. Bates stood beside him, waiting. “Do you think you can be happy here, Bates? I should like very much to know that you are happy.”

Bates smiled at him and for a moment there was the old affection and comradeship there in his face. It took Robert right back to those nights in the bush, long conversations across the campfire, sharing the last pipeful of tobacco, the warm body pressed up against his back banishing the chill as they slept, the arm around his waist banishing the nightmares.

Standing here with Bates, the memories did not bring him shame as they once had. They were his only good memories of the war and he no longer wished to forget them.

“I am content here,” Bates said, bringing Robert back to the present. “I could not ask for more than that.”

“Well,” Robert said, “that is a start, at least.”

“A good start.”

“Yes.”

They continued, making their way slowly across the lawn as the first raindrops fell, stinging Robert’s face. He looked up, surveying the unquiet sky, clouds hanging dark and heavy above the spires of the house. The storm had arrived sooner than he had expected.

“Will that be all, m’lord?” Bates asked. They had reached the doors to the sitting room.

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you, Bates.”

Bates inclined his head, then retreated into the dimness of the hall, his footsteps echoing unevenly on the tile, the tap of his cane a clicking counterpoint.

The sitting room was dark, the storm having taken the household by surprise. Robert imagined the servants were all busy with clearing the remains of the party and lighting fires in the rooms that were occupied. He should find Cora and the girls, reassure them if they were frightened by the news of war. It was time for tea anyway and they would be expecting him.

The clock on the mantle chimed four. He stood at the window, watching the storm roll in over Downton.


End file.
